


Symbiotic

by noctuahoot



Category: Original Work
Genre: Eldritch, Family Bonding, Fishing, Gen, Minor Character Death, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:28:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21938992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noctuahoot/pseuds/noctuahoot
Summary: We feed him while we are here, and he rewards us and ensnares us all the same.
Kudos: 1





	Symbiotic

I let my fingers relax just enough to disturb the surface of the lake. Small circles radiate out from where I break the water, the only waves on a calm morning like this. They resonate out until they disappear under the cover of fog. My other hand taps out a rhythm against the border of the boat, the bass line of some song I’d overheard in the market earlier that week. My mother won’t let me change the station from her adult contemporary station, even if she’s not working the register that day. I tried it once, and she basically ripped my head off for it. The brief respite from Martina McBride wasn’t worth it. 

With a sigh, I rest my chin against the edge of the boat alongside my hand. I’ve been waiting here since four-forty, and it’s now nearing seven. I’m not a morning person, wasn’t even one as a kid, but the market necessitated it. And ever since my parents got a clue that we got the most fish on days when I went out, well, I’ve been forced into the morning person life. At least there’s coffee. The fog is starting to burn off now, fleeing from the sun’s imminent rise. Anytime now, the fish should be coming. Any. Time. Now. My fingers begin to tap even faster as I wait. 

Patience is not one of my virtues.

In the distance, finally, I see small ripples making their way back to me. They grow in frequency and size, with the source approaching the boat. Finally, he is here. 

I look at the surface of the water, and watch it break. A muddy grey tentacle rises up the side of the boat towards me, the beginnings of a familiar net held in its curled tip. I reach out, and grip two openings in the net, if only to guide the appendage towards the ship. No matter how much I worked out at home, there was no way I could lift that much weight on my own. As the net travels up, I see the haul that Franklin has brought in— sizeable, especially for this time of year. The fish are wriggling in their joint cell, trying to free themselves back into the ocean. Some of the smaller ones towards the bottom succeed in flopping out, but it’s nothing compared to the fish that remain. With the support from two additional tentacles, Franklin heaves the net into the boat. My line of sight dips slightly from the weight of the added load. 

“Thanks, Franklin,” I speak, reaching out to pat the tentacle which was closest to me. “I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but... could you maybe get the fish in a bit earlier? The market opens at nine, so we’re cutting it close today.” 

A deep whine resonates from beneath the surface. His tentacle sneaks back from my hand, and slinks into the water.

“Stop being a baby about it, c’mon. We both know you’re just being lazy now. If I have to be up at four, you can put a little more effort into getting the fish together.”

There’s a bubble at the surface of the water, another bit of sass from the aquatic assistant. 

“I control your mealtimes.” 

This remark seems to be enough to convince Franklin to offer a tentacle in a show of peace. I reach out, and give it a little pat once more. He’s being kind today— the idea of a meal brought straight to him is more tempting than not.

“I’ll be back with your meal tomorrow morning. Get a good rest in, Franklin.” If he gives any sort of audible response, it’s drowned out by the engine of the boat roaring to life. Weighed down by a successful morning, I sail back home. 

I’m not the first one in my family to work with Franklin, and I won’t be the last. He was given the name Franklin by my great-grandfather, but the way my mom tells it, he’s been tied to the family for a lot further back than that. I grew up knowing about him, knowing that he was a friend, knowing he was the reason we were able to keep living by the lake. Later on, I figured out he was the reason I’d always been homeschooled and that I barely knew any of the names of the kids who lived out in the main part of town. No matter how much of a trustworthy kid I may have been, there was no guarantee I wouldn’t run my mouth about Franklin if I was let out and about with the other kids. It’s okay, though. I like the family business.

The drive out to town normally takes twenty-five minutes or so, but with the sting of early winter clinging to the breeze, I take the turns a little slower today. By the time I drive into the back of the market, my mother is already out there, tanned and muscled arms crossed across her chest. Even if I’m technically on time— 8:56, pushing it, but still on time— she’s never been one for sympathy. 

Despite the din of the radio, her voice is still clear. “Evan Michael, what in the hell has taken you so long? We’re opening in four minute, four, and you couldn’t find it in you to get your ass down here any faster?” 

I pull the emergency brake and turn off the ignition, not wanting to make my mother even more irritated with me. Quickly opening the door and climbing out of the truck, I look her in the eyes. “Mom, it wasn’t my fault this time. Franklin was being lazy getting the fish, and you know how hard it is to get him to rush.”

She looks at me with a raised eyebrow, emphasizing the wrinkles her forehead had begun to develop over the past few years. “You better not be lying to me, Evan. I control your paycheck.”

While that is true, it is also true that I lived rent-free in our house, and don’t have to pay for living expenses either. However, bringing up that point seems less than wise at the moment, considering just how... displeased she seems.

“Understood, mother.” Before she can raise any more complaints, I grab the dolly we keep outside and roll it to the back of the truck. “Even if he was a little late, Franklin did bring in a good catch today. Sales should be good, so long as the weather holds.” She joins me in pulling the fish out from the bed of the truck, and so the day at the market begins. 

By the time five rolls around, my hands are nearly entirely numb. Even with the gloves I wear to handle the fish, my fingers have pruned up into something white and slimy. I stare at them, wiggling all five on my left hand in front of my face. They’re like strange, alien appendages. I wonder if this is how my fingers appear to Franklin— odd wiggly things that look like they could flake apart at any second. 

“I’m going to start cleaning up here. Are you good gathering up the food for Franklin tonight?” 

This is the one chore she ever asks if I’m okay taking on by myself, and I know it’s the closest she can get to openly showing compassion. Years of hard work have hardened my mother, both physically and mentally. Her brow furrows down on her hazel eyes as she looks at me. 

“Mom, I’ve been fine getting his food for the last few years. I know what I’m doing. You know I’ll bring something back for him.” As I speak, I walk towards the back door. This conversation can and will go on for far too long if no one stops it, and I really don’t have the patience for hearing the same discussion for the hundredth time. I pull open the screen, and face her from under the doorframe. 

“Just... be safe,” she sighs, dragging a hand down the side of her face. I don’t like her looking like that, like she has any sort of doubts. She’s not a woman who should ever have doubts. “For the both of us.” 

“I will. I always am.” And with that as the final say, I close the back door behind me. Even through the door, I can hear her sigh. I try to pay it no mind as I get into my truck once more.

My high beams illuminate the road in front of me, the only real source of light this far out of town besides the moon. I test the radio, only to hear static blur from the speakers. To fill the silence, I hum that same melody which had been running through my head earlier in the morning. The engine harmonizes with me, lower than even my baritone. The headlights catch on the branches of the evergreens, which stretch on into the blackness.

The monotony is broken up by a figure, standing on the right hand side of the road, arm extended and thumb up. I press my foot on the breaks, and pull over. I roll down the window on my left, and look out at the figure, an older man in a ragged flannel. 

“You looking for a ride?” I ask, studying him. He looks strung out, eyes red and squinty. He grins at me, exposing yellowing teeth. I stifle a grimace.

“That’s what the thumb means, don’t it? Where ya headed?” 

“Just a couple cities up north, picking up supplies for work. Would that work for you?” I ask, letting my words slur together. 

“That’d suit me just fine, son,” he responds, even more of his teeth showing through. 

Don’t call me that, I want to say, irritated by the casual way he refers to me. “Hop in then,” I say, opening the door for him. He does so, with perhaps more wobbling than is necessary, and closes himself into the truck.

“Drop me off in whatever city’s biggest on your way. I’m looking to catch a bus out east, got family to see. Name’s Mitchell, by the way.” 

Mitchell offers me a hand by way of greeting. I place both hands on the steering wheel, and get back on the road. “Nice to meet you, Mitchell,” I say, my eyes remaining steady on the road. As much as I don’t like this kind of thing, it’s necessary.

“Y’know, you’re some sorta lucky star out here,” he continues. I can smell the stench of his breath intruding into my personal space. “I thought there would be nobody out around here for ages! And, I mean, I was waiting for a while, but then you came in with your headlights like the light outta heaven or something! Maybe somethin’ in my life is goin’ good for once.” He looks up at the ceiling— if I had a sunroof, he’d be looking at the moon. 

I stare in my rearview mirror, and see nothing but blackness behind me. “Yeah, lucky star or something...” 

A moment of quiet between us passes, one that I’m grateful for. I prefer not to know much about the people I pick up. It makes the rest of the process that much more inconvenient. 

“So...” he drawls, filling the silence with the sound of his own voice. “What do you do? For work, I mean, you mentioned it before. I used to be an office worker, myself, but that wasn’t the place for me. Now I just go where the wind takes me. Suits me a lot better.” He looks at me expectantly, expecting information in exchange for his own.

“Just a fisherman. It’s the family business.” 

I can see the overexaggerated nods Mitchell makes in my peripheral vision. “Ah, a man who puts in honest work for a living! I like it!” 

“Mm,” I murmur in response, pulling over onto the side of the road. I reach into the side compartment of my door, and grasp the cold steel in my hand. It reminds me, in ways, of the feel of Franklin’s tentacles. Cold, smooth, dangerous. 

It takes Mitchell a few seconds to register that we aren’t moving any longer. “Hey, weren’t you sayin’ that we were heading to the city?” he asks, a slight tremor entering his voice. 

“Get out of the car.”

“What?”

“Get out of the car,” I repeat. My tone is steady, as my mother had taught me so many years ago. His hands shake as he grasps the door handle, and he doesn’t make a run for it— perhaps too far from sober to even have the coordination. It’s a good thing, frankly. I hate it when they run. I open my car door, and walk outside.

Two shots echo in the night, and I am home by one in the morning.

I am awoken by the dulcet tones of Martina McBride, and the much more welcome smell of coffee. “Get up, Evan!” my mother exclaims, giving me no grace period to rise from the couch. “It’s 4:30, you have to be out on the lake soon. Franklin’s meal is out on the porch, in the duffel. You know the one.” 

I grab blindly for the coffee, and mumble a thanks. I’m still dressed from the night before, minus the jacket (currently soaking to get the stains out), so I pull on another jacket and head outside. The lake is covered with a thick layer of fog, only just visible from the light of the house. The duffle my mother had mentioned beforehand is heavy, but manageable. Less than the weight of the fish yesterday, to be sure. Carrying it over my shoulder, I move from the porch to the dock, and climb into the boat. The cold air stings my face, and combined with the coffee, I can stay awake on the meager three hours of sleep I’ve gotten. 

Eventually, I reach the center of the lake, and pull on my gloves. Unzipping the duffle bag, I find a hand, stiff and pale. My mother had always been the better butcher out of the two of us, and that skill shines through in the clean cut of the wrist. Lifting up the hand above the smooth surface, I drop it in. Its weight creates waves, and this time there’s no waiting required for the echoing waves to appear. 

Franklin must be quite hungry. I make a mental note— I have to get his meal faster next time.

Two tentacles, cold and slick, crawl their way up the side of the boat. I give one a soft pat, before reaching into the duffle once more. This time, a foot comes out, then a forearm. Both disappear within the depths of the lake within mere seconds, pulled down by the tentacles which lay beneath. Barely, just barely, I can hear the sounds of crunching far below me. I give him more and more, a torso, a thigh, and he consumes each with the same voracity as the piece before. If not Mitchell, it would be another. Franklin’s hunger doesn’t cease, and if we leave him without a meal, well. He knows where the nearest source of meat is. 

He consumes as he always has, and as he will long after I am gone. He will consume under many names, not just as Franklin. We feed him while we are here, and he rewards us and ensnares us all the same. 

I reach into the duffle once more, and pull out the head. Franklin doesn’t hesitate to grasp the neck with his two tentacles, the ones which had previously been attached to the boat. In one graceful movement, the skull is crushed, leaving only a mess of gore within his grasp. Eyes which had once looked at me in a drunken daze are ejected into the lake, falling beneath to become snacks for the fish. Franklin is a kind neighbor to them. The tentacles, normally a muddy purple, are coated in scarlet and defined by moonlight. He is beautiful. 

I savor my work.

**Author's Note:**

> so. i wrote this for a fiction writing class while sick. working title was, "little loch of horrors." my fever brain does odd things.


End file.
